


Not another flower in the garden

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Clothing, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 07:01:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4615824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There are many things in this world more valuable than beauty. A dowager’s grandeur is not lost because her face is lined with wisdom. Our Seeker’s scars do not detract from her authority. ‘Beauty’ is a descriptor, not a measure of worth.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not another flower in the garden

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fun_lovin_sea_monster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fun_lovin_sea_monster/gifts).



Vivienne tuts low, warning Adaar to stop fidgeting on her stool. The Vashoth releases a gusty exhale, forcing her body calm as Vivienne adjusts the trim on her uniform.

“Just as well we’re showing as a military presence,” she says, running a blunted claw along the seam of her pants. So strange to have a well-fitted formal suit; finding apparel in sizes well beyond ‘human’ has always been a struggle, and the coin spent was always better used on mercenary gear or equipment. Vivienne had taken mercy on her and accompanied her to her tailoring and fitting appointments, reminding her to keep her head high and not apologize for her size. (“Ill-fitted apparel is the fault of your tailor, not your form, my dear.”) “I would look an utter fool in a ballgown.”

“My dear, you do yourself too little credit. You are deft on your feet, charming when you choose to be, and impressively proportioned. And you perform the dance of six candles far better than many who have had the luxury of tutors.”

“But not beautiful.” It comes out plaintive, a childish whine. Adaar cringes, forces her lips in a smile and chuckles to dispel the self-pity. “Too tall, too broad, too sharp.” She flicks her fingers along the curve of her horns, miming a goring bull. “I doubt I’ll have to worry about dance partners.”

Vivienne’s lips press in a thin line as she leans forward-- and while her slender hand is ostensibly smoothing the shoulders on Adaar’s uniform, the lingering touch offers more comfort than a simple wardrobe adjustment. Adaar breathes in slow, savoring the hint of rose oil on Vivienne’s pulse.

“There are _many_ things in this world more valuable than beauty. A dowager’s grandeur is not lost because her face is lined with wisdom. Our Seeker’s scars do not detract from her authority. ‘Beauty’ is a descriptor, not a measure of worth.” She pulls Adaar’s hair from its loose braid and brushes it in slow, measured strokes, working small segments so that Adaar never feels the familiar yank and pull from her own ministrations. “Elegance. Power. Charisma. Those mean much more than ‘beauty.’ And there are shades within even that word; I may be beautiful, but ‘pretty’ is an inaccurate and petty shade, like watered ink. Josephine is sweet, perhaps ‘adorable’ if one catches her in a moment of vulnerability, but not ‘commanding.’” She pauses, setting the brush on the dresser with a gentle tick of wood on wood. “Though perhaps I should revise that assessment. I admit I have yet to see her wield authority beyond subtleties.”

She gathers Adaar’s hair, creating a tight braid woven close to the scalp. A style Adaar would never dare attempt on her own, not with her own clumsy hands. But Vivienne’s touch is gentle, brushing the tips of Adaar’s ears and making her shiver, longing to melt like a purring cat.

“And why should you make yourself small and soft for the Court? Be tall. Be grand. Be _magnificent_. Your shoulders are breath-taking, your horns majestic.” A whiff of roses as Vivienne leans in, her breath tickling along Adaar’s skin. “Do not seek to be yet another flower in the garden, lost in a mass of cloying sweetness.”

The perfume hits a funny note; Adaar thinks about asking Vivienne if she is ‘yet another flower,’ but no; of course Vivienne would make herself the showpiece.

“You could have any of them eating from your hand, or falling over themselves to offer canapes and grateful for the opportunity,” Vivienne continues. A pause as she ties the braid in place with a leather cord, then fits a metal buckle over as ornament. Then a few silver pins, cool on Adaar’s scalp. “You have much more to offer than mere beauty.”

Adaar turns to face her, mouth open in thanks-- for the kind words, the hairdressing, for Vivienne’s gracious presence-- but Vivienne tucks her fingers under Adaar’s chin, fluttering along the hollow of her throat. Adaar shivers, feeling less exposed, more _elevated_ by Vivienne’s appraisal, the way  Vivienne’s eyes glitter like the night sky.

Warm and sharp as the sea, Vivienne says, “And you are beautiful, my dear.”

 _I love you,_ catches in her throat, turns to cotton and sticks wet and miserable. Another silly, useless-petal word, soft and bland as any of the mass-produced beauties of the Orlesian salons. She can cut her way across the field of battle, hear victory in the ringing crash of metal and the blood-roar in her ears. She wears her armor with more ease than any gown, and yet--

\--and yet--

\--she does not _need_ to turn herself small and soft. Life is a battle, not a game. Still less _the_ Game.

“Thank you. But you are correct. It is irrelevant.” She smiles, teeth glittering and wonders if it’s too late to request metal caps on her horns-- sharp ones. Rising to her full height, back straight and chin high, she gives Vivienne a bow. Flourishes. “Will you do me the favor of the first dance tonight, Madame de Fer?”

Because life may be a battle, but love is not a battlefield-- and Vivienne is her ally.


End file.
